


aftermath

by Piyo13



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Character Study, Fëanorian Week 2019, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-18 23:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18127874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: Maedhros had survived captivity—thirty years of it, they tell him—and his fëa had only the lightest of scratches, only the faintest dimming of color.But here, now? Yes, Sauron and Morgoth still exist, the Silmarils still need to be reclaimed, but they're not—it's not—now that Maedhros isn't actively being tortured anymore, all that's left is the aftermath.





	aftermath

The thing is—and Maedhros learns this quickly, learns to hide it even quicker—is that it comes in waves. 

In Angband, he was able to manage it. Angband had burned, a forge at heart even if it was an evil one, and Maedhros—well. Maedhros would be lying if he said he'd never heard the whispers.  _Burns brighter than Fëanáro, that Nelyafinwë._  Fire had fed fire, fire had  _fought_  fire; Maedhros had been able to channel all his rage and anger and pain into fighting and surviving and cursing Sauron, beating down any physical pain with a grin and defiance, no matter how much that cost him. 

Thangorodrim had been much the same, the wind that sped around the cliff faces fanned him, rather than smothering him; here, it was less a mental game and more a physical one, his shoulder threatening to tear from its socket. Eventually he'd managed to numb out the pain, and by the time Fingon came to rescue him, he'd barely even felt the cut of the knife. 

The look on Fingon's face had been enough to know what was happening, anyways. 

And so Maedhros had survived captivity—thirty years of it, they tell him—and his  _fëa_  had only the lightest of scratches, only the faintest dimming of color.

But here, now? Yes, Sauron and Morgoth still exist, the Silmarils still need to be reclaimed, but they're not—it's not—now that Maedhros isn't  _actively_  being tortured anymore, all that's left is the aftermath.

Elbereth, above, is it ever  _awful._

The despair, the hatred, the pain—it comes in waves, liquid fear, water so powerful that it takes all Maedhros has not to be extinguished. 

He throws himself into work. 

He gives up the crown, because if he knows anything, now, it's that no Elves should have to be under a High King with as fragile a grasp of his own wellbeing as Maedhros has; he muscles his way into alliances and treaties and promises of support; urges his followers—somewhere, deep down, he's still vaguely surprised that they still consent to follow him; he and his family have already brought down so much suffering on their heads, why stay for more?—to build fortresses and set up shifts for a watch. He braves the bitter cold of Himring with barely a single furred cloak, because the cold at least reminds him that he's  _alive_  and  _burning_. 

And because no one will follow him out there, not when the wind whips sideways and flecks of icy rain freeze in the tangles of his hair that he's unable to sort out for himself. He wishes Fingon were back; he's gone to visit FIngolfin, and without him, Maedhros' hair is already starting to resemble a rat's nest. 

Alone, his scar aching with the cold and the fingers of his remaining hand already slightly numb—he has to pause to shove away the thought of Fingon and the others crossing the Helacaraxë; Maedhros had thought Fëanor would turn back, send the ships to pick up the rest, but he'd burned them down and Amrod with them, and the pain of that thought alone makes Maedhros' chest hurt, because Amras isn't the same anymore and Maedhros wishes beyond hope that he could make things right but he  _can't_ —

Alone, Maedhros lets himself fall. 

The tidal wave that he's been holding back for the last few days breaks, flowing over him, despair and loneliness and fear, Elbereth above the  _fear_ —

The tears are freezing on his face as they roll down, and at least here in the wilds beyond Himring no one can  _hear_  if he screams. If he cries. If he loses himself, even just for a moment, to all these emotions and feelings that he doubts many Elves have experienced before, if he fears death and pain as no immortal should, well—

It's not like there's anyone else to witness it. 

It's fine. 

He knows his brothers wonder where he goes; why, when he returns, his voice is always rougher, his skin chilled. But Maedhros will never tell them, he knows—he's their older brother; he can't let them—

He has to support  _them,_ is the point. Their father's dead, Amrod dead, mother far over a merciless sea, and the lot of them trapped into the bonds of an Oath that they will all fight to their dying breath for. The least Maedhros can do is let himself be  _their_  support. He can already see them fraying at the ends, anyways; Caranthir always threatening to leave, Celegorm growing restless and Curufin sharp. Maglor does his best, but his music is ever more discordant, and Amras... Amras is a shadow of himself, barely speaking, barely eating. 

So, no. This is something Maedhros will bear alone. 

The tears are slowing already, anyways, and his throat burns only slightly. 

And then, suddenly, there's a warm weight on his shoulders, and in the moment it takes Maedhros to realize it's just another cloak, body-warm from its recent bearer, he's already gotten his sword drawn left-handed and is holding it to the intruder's throat. 

"Peace, Maitimo," Fingon says, his voice still somehow managing to carry the warmth and goodness of Aman, even through all that he's seen and suffered. Because of Maedhros and his family. The tears threaten again, but now that his sword is no longer pointing towards Fingon’s throat, Fingon steps forward.

Maedhros lets him, and soon finds himself wrapped up in Fingon’s arms. Fingon is shorter that Maedhros, has always been, and slowly Maedhros gives up his weight, leaning more and more onto Fingon, the other’s only response being to hug Maedhros tighter. The wave crashes, again and again, but the crest each time gets lower, calmer.

“You know,” Fingon says, conversationally, as if he were talking about the weather or pointing out a plant, “there is no law that states you can only suffer alone.”

Maedhros takes a deep breath. His nose is pressed into the crook of Fingon’s neck, right where it meets his shoulder, and every breath Maedhros takes smells like him. Safe.

The tears are falling again, only this time they sink into the fabric of Fingon’s shirt instead of freezing. Fingon’s hand strokes up and down Maedhros’ back. After a few seconds, Maedhros realizes that it’s Fingon’s own cloak he’s wearing, and that Fingon is going without, and so Maedhros abruptly stands up straight—doesn’t bother trying to wipe away his tears, for they’ve already been seen, so what’s the point?—and rearranges them so that they’re side by side.

His own cloak he sets on the ground, and then sits upon it, tugging Fingon down to sit next to him. Fingon’s cloak wraps—just barely—around both of their shoulders. The sleet has died down a little, given way to a thick, rolling fog that dims everything and makes even the closest of hills seem much more distant.

For a while, neither speaks, though Maedhros leans on Fingon and Fingon holds Maedhros’ hand, fingers intertwined.

“Makalaurë told me you’d gone walking,” Fingon says eventually. Maedhros chances a glance at him. Fingon is staring, his eyes serious and the gold threaded through his hair gleaming dully even in the fog. “That was not your intention, though, was it?”

Maedhros is, unsurprisingly, the first to look away—he could stare down and defy Sauron, but Fingon? Maedhros has never been able to deny him anything, least of all the truth.

“Sometimes, it’s—” Maedhros pauses. He’s never wanted to share this with anyone, never been able to; but Fingon is looking at him attentively, with interest and care but not pity, and so Maedhros swallows and tries again. “I fear him, sometimes,” he says, inclining his head towards the north so it’s clear whom. “And sometimes it’s easier if I let the fear out. Rather than—than drown in it.”

It’s laughable, really, how Maedhros has no issues standing in front of a war council of Elves of highest rank and making the case for an alliance despite political divisions, but place him in front of his cousin and ask him to explain what he feels…

“Mm.” Fingon’s silent for a moment, and Maedhros gets the impression he is doing rather a lot of thinking. “I meant what I said,” is what he finally says. “There is no reason for you to bear this alone.” Maedhros opens his mouth, but Fingon forestalls him with a hand. “I don’t claim to know or understand what you are suffering, but—I would share it with you nonetheless.”

“I can’t put you through that,” Maedhros says. “I don’t—it’s always the same fears, always the same—the same _panic_ , same loss of reasoning, and I would spare you. It’s just better if I—"

“Then let me rephrase,” Fingon says, steel inching into his voice and his eyes flashing with power that brooks no argument. “I want you to share your burdens with me, because seeing you suffer alone wounds my heart far more.”

Maedhros can’t help it; he stares. The light fades from Fingon’s eyes, returning them to their usual warmth, and then Fingon reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Maedhros’ ear. He runs his hand over the nape of Maedhros’ neck, and then pulls him in, kissing first his forehead, then his lips.

“Come,” he says, turning slightly and spreading his legs, patting the space between them. “Turn around. I will try to solve this puzzle that is your hair, and you will tell me what troubles you. Is that amenable to you?”

With a sigh that can’t hide his genuine smile, unpracticed and rough though it is, Maedhros complies, though he insists on returning to Fingon his cloak, first.

Fingon’s fingers are gentle on his scalp as he works, and Maedhros finds it easier to talk when he doesn’t have to face his listener. He tells Fingon everything, then: things that Fingon has already heard, such as the arrival of the ships and Fëanor’s unexpected reaction, and things of which Maedhos has never spoken aloud before, not to a single soul.

How he got the scars that now litter his body, how he learned Blackspeech, the way that Sauron behaved and _looked_ at him.

The pain. And fear.

And by the time the waterfall of words slow, Maedhros’ hair is collected into a variety of braids, each neat and precise, and Maedhros’ heart feels lighter. Not—not _healed_ , necessarily, but… hopeful, in a way that Maedhros had almost given up on feeling.

Like he _could_ feel better, in the future.

He turns, and kisses Fingon to the ground, his weight supported on his elbows as he straddles him. When he pulls away, they’re both breathing hard, and Fingon’s eyes are wide. Maedhros buries his nose back into the crook of Fingon’s neck.

The waves are receding, drying up.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Fingon is always like this: somehow anticipating what Maedhros needs. And then, because Fingon is better than the rest of them put together, providing it. Fingon’s arms wrap around Maedhros, holding him fast and close.

They stay there for a while.

**Author's Note:**

> i just really like the idea of Functional Maedhros, where he's doing all this crazy alliance-building and himring building and all that sort of thing and so like no one even _suspects_ anything is wrong but inside maedhros is suffering from a type of trauma that elves to that point don't even really _know_ about? ~~save perhaps those that survived the kinslaying but even so i feel like that's a little bit different~~ and he's suffering alone because he's managing to project this image of Functionality and he can't bring himself to shatter illusions like that, or something


End file.
